A Message From Our Sponsors
by CrazedAuthorNo.5
Summary: Paul goes to the movies.  But he is in for one BIG surprise.  Rated M for language


The room was silent. It was a dead kind of silence that unnerved anyone passing by. Those in passing would have never known the flashing and dancing lights or the occupants filling the theater. The occupants of the red cushioned seats were either a mannequin or skeleton. Each body was clothed in what you would find in modern attire. However, their faces were fake and hollow. No hint of applause of admiration, giggle in humor, scream of terror, or gasp of shock could be heard. The audience was not an audience at all. While they might have watched, no feedback was returned in complement of the movie itself.

The depressing and oppressive silence reigned supreme until the loud door of the theater was kicked in and a striding man sauntered inside spilling some popcorn along the way. Upon his face were a child's stolen red and blue 3D paper glasses, but they didn't conceal his cheeky grin munching openly on popcorn or the sharp cheekbones and chin. His hair was teased into one big blond windblown mess as his many chains around his neck clanked. He carried an obnoxiously sized tub of popcorn and extra large drink. This young man was giddy in excitement, running to the first row without glancing at the others along the way.

Parking himself in the middle, he stared in fascination at the screen, loudly popping each kernel in his mouth with a loud smacking of his lips while licking the buildup of butter and salt off his fingers. The slurping of his drink was especially piercing, but no one glared or piped up at this rowdy stranger. The stranger then started to yell.

"WHAT THE HELL! I didn't say that BULLSHIT! It's not even CLOSE…"

"BULLSHIT! BuLL Sheee-yahhhhht!"

"Who wrote this SHIT?"

"Ewww! I forgot how gross her face looked like. HAHAHA- ha! ANA'S NOOOOTTT HEERRRREEE! SHE CAN'T GET ME," the man said in sing-song.

"What? She would fuck you in THE EYE," he bellowed throwing popcorn at the screen.

"David is not THAT cool!"

"I REMEMBER THAT."

"I don't remember that…"

"FUCK YEAAAAHH! GO DWAYNE." The man decided to shrilly whistle and for the first time, glanced at his neighbor laughingly.

The smile on his face vanished and he tilted his face downward to get a better look at the person sitting next to him, without the hindrance of the 3D goggles. With sparkling eyes, he eyed the mannequin in growing distaste. It was odd that a mannequin instead of a human filled the seat next to him, but he could overlook that by improving its inhuman look. Sliding off the glasses, he slipped it on the woman mannequin thinking that it would add more personality. After evaluating his work in a self-serving grin, his gaze drifted past her and caught the other skeletons and mannequins filling the row. The man paused and his eyes grew wide in a growing comprehension and disturbed amazement as he turned around with his leather pants squealing loudly in protest.

"What the fuck," he whispered, feeling oddly lonely and empty at the sight before him. The man would have laughed, but the show was his own. His story was the one being told, no matter how accurate or how well executed.

Just as he considered leaving, a soft thumping noise alerted him back to the screen. Its persistence broke him out of his mind-fuck and he turned with curiosity. Ignoring the movie, he dropped his bucket of half-eaten popcorn to the ground and he jumped up trotting towards the side of the screen. Peeking around the white cloth he saw a very small glow of light behind the heavy black curtain. Deciding that the sniveling was too damn annoying, he inconspicuously walked over and dramatically (or what he thought was dramatic) ripped back the black curtain.

It revealed a squirrelly looking fellow- a bit on the pale side, thin, and not at all appetizing. He was banging his head on the simple rickety wooden desk. The man clearly could not sense Paul's awe-inspiring presence.

"Ah-hemm," Paul smoothly inserted, but to his aggravation the man continued to give pathetic little moans and bangs. Paul then used the only approach he knew. "HEY YOU. What the hell you doing?" The man didn't pause but he did respond.

"I'm busting my head open, you numskull. It's not like it matters," he squeaked between hits.

"Soooooo... why?" The man did stop this time. Resting his head on the table, he turned to Paul with a pointed and deadening look. There was a fairly large read indent on his forehead that looked like it hurt something fierce. His eyes were dark brown and sunken, he had high cheekbones but the skin seemed to fall away from his face most unappealingly. All in all, Paul concluded he would not be eating him. The smell was reminiscent of stale piss.

"Did you see them out there?" Paul nodded. "Well- this is what I have been going through for the last 5 years! Not a single piece of feedback! Their zombies out there- no worse- their ghosts! They don't give a damn about anything at all. It either takes the worst movie imaginable or the best to get any kind of reaction out of them. That movie out there is mine! I WROTE THE WHOLE FUCKING THING!" Paul wondered if he should tell the guy that he should be expecting a visit from him and the boys soon. "I'm a writer. But whats the bloody point if there's no audience...?" Paul paused for a moment. He could understand the dilemma, it was a bit freaky. The silence meant nothing- it gave the writer nothing to work with and Paul didn't like that it was _his_ story that people were not talking about.

Without Paul's response, the writer commenced hitting his head, but Paul considered his options before a brilliant idea appeared in his minds eye. Jumping up in delight, he ran from behind the current and out the theater's doors. The author either didn't care nor saw his exit, believing that the only engaged member of the audience wasn't as faithful to his work as he had thought. A minute passed before the doors swung open again revealing Paul with two large orange containers.

Whistling as he unscrewed the lids, he started to spill, splash, and dump the yellow liquid over the audience. His tune was so much fun that he danced up and down the aisles. The liquid was giving Paul a pleasant high, but he had to focus on his task.

After another minute, the author himself could smell of what could only be described as gasoline. Peeking around the curtain, he witnessed the skipping idiot dumping it all over the theater.

"What are you doing?" The author demanded wide-eyed. Paul didn't even look up.

"I'm making a point, yull thank me laterrr," he slurred. The author stepped out and started to panic.

"But all these people-"

"You said it yourself, dude. Their ghosts. You can't burn a ghost. But if I were you, I would probably run for your life," Paul remarked as he finished his work. Tossing the containers into the crowd, one of which breaking a skeleton's head clear off, Paul skipped to the screen. Standing in front of the "crowd", he waited until the author had scampered out of the room. Clearing his throat, he put his hands in his leather jacket and glared out into the crowd.

"You all know why I am here and you all know what I am doing. I poured gas all through the theater for a few reasons. Reason one: Frankly, you are all pissing me off. You come here to see my show and don't even decide to at least leave a comment. Dick move. Reason two: This is SOMEONE'S work. Someone who has put their time and energy for your enjoyment. Sure, the author enjoys it as well, but it is fuckin' insulting to hear no response out of the crowd. You KNOW who you are. Reason three: If there is no audience, then there is no show and thus, no theater." Paul scowled and his eyes flashed yellow before pulling out of his pocket a matchbook. Taking out a match, he glared at the crowd who was just as motionless as before.

"It's easy to do the wrong thing, but why not try the right thing for once."

Paul lit the match and held it out for all to see.

"Get the picture?"

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